


what if we overthink about each other... and we're both boys

by pusa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pusa/pseuds/pusa
Summary: And in the ages between sixteen and twenty-two, there was never a moment where Akaashi Keiji wasn’t in love with Bokuto Koutarou.(And in the ages between seventeen and twenty-four, there was never a moment where Bokuto Koutarou wasn’t in love with Akaashi Keiji.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 39
Kudos: 202





	what if we overthink about each other... and we're both boys

**Author's Note:**

> i tried a new writing style is it sexy (also alternative title is: do you overthink about me too? but i'm dumb and this one fit the fic too much..)

We are inside a McDonald’s.

Outside the blurry and perspiration-stained window, the street is busy with girls in uniforms and casual wear, excitedly chatting amongst each other; there are businessmen and women alike, dark and brooding as they walk confidently yet with tiredness oozing off them; teenagers with their eccentric outfits and even more eccentric hair colors. This, accompanied with the J-Pop songs blasting from the speakers, and the colorful lights illuminating the crowd, is a typical night in Japan.

The time flashes to us— **11:21pm** —and we gently take in the sight of the busy crowd and the numerous flashing lights accompanying their hurried steps and animated voices. The night is cold and long, even on a school night, busy with students walking and talking, uncaring of the time and the potential consequences of staying out late. The night air is cold and crisp, making hair fly a little, hitting innocent people before they continue on to where they were going. The street hustles and bustles with scattered music and footsteps before our eyes bore of the continuously familiar sight.

Our eyes switch between countless colorful hair and different uniforms and knee-high socks until we look inside the McDonald’s again and our eyes catch on a rather ordinary-looking pair of men by the window. Our eyes focus more on the one slouched by the window, staring at the other beside him with an expressionless look on his face, his glasses are blurry and full of fingerprint stains, yet he doesn’t make a move to fix it nor does it look like he notices any of the stains. His black coat, thrown recklessly on the table in front of him, had kept him too hot inside the place and now, he sits with a simple white button-up with his slacks. He looks professional and casual. His eyes blink and then they narrow. The glasses droop down slightly on his nose.

“Bokuto-san,” he says, taking a piece (or more) of fry from the other’s tray and lets a soft smile grace his lips when the other squawks. “There’s ketchup on your chin.”

His name flashes in front of us. Akaashi Keiji. Editor for a manga company. We assume the glasses and editing go hand in hand.

We take our eyes off Keiji and turn to the man beside him, he’s entirely focused on eating his burger and fries and like Keiji has said, there’s ketchup on his chin. There’s a black cap on top of his head, and we can vaguely make out grey and black hair, peeking out from the back and some on the front drooping down his eyes. His jacket, black with white linings and highlights, with the word **MSBY** printed largely and bold on the back, zipped up tightly and high, is barely grazing his chin. Keiji eyes the ends of the jacket, barely missing the ketchup-stained chin, with disdain and worry. His fingers itch towards the napkins by the table, next to his iced coffee.

Then, the name of the man flashes in front of us again. Bokuto Koutarou. Professional volleyball player. An outside hitter for MSBY Black Jackals. His jacket makes sense now.

Then, our eyes turn back to Keiji, annoyed and concerned for Koutarou, and we are confused and amused at the odd pair.

We talk amongst ourselves.

_How do they know each other?_

_An editor and a professional volleyball player?_

_Who are they, exactly?_

Our questions remain unanswered. Our eyes go back to the pair and now, Keiji is wiping away the ketchup in Koutarou’s chin. Koutarou is looking at him with soft eyes and an even softer smile. We get the sense that they’ve been friends for a very long time.

“Keiji,” Koutarou starts and we raise our brows at the difference of names. Why’d he call him Keiji and not Akaashi-san? We hold our breath for what he’s about to say next. “You didn’t have to come with me today! You have a deadline coming up, right?”

Keiji’s fingers wrap around his coffee and there are ink and pen stains in his palms and fingers. We glance at Koutarou to see if he’s noticed. He looks like he does. Keiji takes a small sip and shrugs. “It’s okay,” he mumbles, mouth around his straw, “I like spending time outside, Bokuto-san.”

Koutarou groans a little and bunches up his wrapper. “Kou-ta-rou,” he says out exaggeratedly and Keiji glances at him, smiling against his straw. “Akaashi!”

“Sorry, Bokuto-san,” Keiji’s cheeks are warm and pink and our brows raise even higher. “Force of habit.”

Koutarou’s lips form into a pout and he turns to his fries, flopping them around. “You act like we haven’t been friends since _forever_!”

“I like calling you Bokuto-san, though,” Keiji quips and takes a long sip again. He stares at Koutarou and Koutarou stares back, bottom lip jutting out and out. Keiji grins then.

“ _Kou-ta-rou_ ,” Koutarou says again and this time, a small chuckle leaves Keiji’s lips. His tongue swipes at his bottom lip and he misses the way Koutarou’s eyes follow the movement. “It’s that easy!”

We are at a loss for words.

“All right,” Keiji says simply and then swipes at his fries. “All right, Koutarou.”

Koutarou’s pout instantly turns to a wide grin and his eyes almost sparkle at Keiji’s, his cheeks turn a soft pink and they both look away with wide grins. Keiji’s hand tightens its grip on the coffee and Koutarou is left to stare at his fries and to poke at them again.

An empty sound through the straw echoes and Koutarou looks at Keiji who’s looking down at his coffee. “I’m out of coffee,” Keiji pouts around his straw and Koutarou’s mind blanks at the way his lips softly curls around the straw, turning into a pout.

“Do you want me to buy you another one?” Koutarou asks and Keiji looks at him. Koutarou shrugs and says, “I’m planning to buy more food.”

Keiji raises a brow and we do too. More food? “Shouldn’t you have a proper diet, Mr. Pro Player? One that doesn’t include McDonald’s?”

Koutarou grins and shrugs again. “C’mon! It’s not every day I get to eat here.”

“And it shouldn’t be every day,” Keiji chastises at him and fakes in frowning at him, brows furrowing in faux anger. “You’re a very important player, Bokuto-san.”

“Kou-ta-rou,” Koutarou says again, ignoring all that Keiji’s said. “And I’m serious! What else do you want? I’ll buy you coffee again. And I promise, I won’t buy too much food.”

“Exactly,” Keiji nods and we feel ourselves nod alongside with him. We don’t know much about professional athletes, but we know that athletes shouldn’t eat fast food _this_ much. “And I’d like another coffee and some fries, Koutarou.”

We take notice of the way Keiji’s smile quirks a little higher and the way Koutarou’s eyes linger on his lips. We take notice of the way Keiji’s eyes follow Koutarou’s figure, walking away to the counter, shoulders held high yet face geared towards the ground, eyes hidden by the cap. Of course, to avoid attention.

(This time, however, we are unsure if this would work, considering the largely printed **MSBY** on his back. We will see.)

Our eyes return to Keiji’s, yet his stare remains on the player. We begin to think that maybe this isn’t an ordinary friendship.

Keiji looks away and his eyes turn to his empty coffee cup and we all hold our breaths. Keiji’s fingers gently tap on the sticky table and a soft yet heavy sigh leaves his lips. Keiji’s eyes stay on the coffee cup but we feel that he is reminiscing—remembering a fond memory, a memory he keeps close to his chest and one that he probably stays up late at night, thinking about.

The memory flashes in front of us and we—we blink, and we are taken back to seven years ago, in the gentle and strong year of 2012. Our eyes refocus and we see him then—Akaashi Keiji, sixteen and shy, fingers nervously fiddling with each other, his eyes looking at the boys in front of him, all taller and smaller than him.

We are inside a gym now. A rather large one. The name of the school flashes in front of us. Fukurodani Academy. It’s the first day of tryouts for the volleyball club. Our eyes focus on Akaashi Keiji and how he introduces himself. We can still sense the same calming aura of his, even six years back, though there is the lack of confidence and pride he holds. Instead, we look at a timid and shy sixteen-year-old amongst monsters.

The tryouts flow as usual. We can see Keiji is not mediocre, but he is not a beast at volleyball either. These are things we can only conclude. As the memory nears to its end, with Keiji mopping up and picking up stray balls, a familiar figure approaches him, and our eyebrows raise, and whispers emerge amongst us.

Standing in front of him is Bokuto Koutarou—sixteen, bordering on seventeen—sweaty yet grinning. His back is already so broad, shoulders held high and posture perfect. He looks like a professional volleyball player at such a young age.

“Hey, Akashi-kun?” he says nervously, and he looks like he’s plotting something. We hold our breaths.

Keiji’s voice is neutral and calm, yet his insides bounce around. “It’s Akaashi…” _It’s Bokuto Koutarou_.

We get the sense that Keiji has known Bokuto Koutarou longer than we know. A fan?

Koutarou’s voice is hesitant yet proud, as he tilts his head a little and asks, “Could you please help me practice spikes for just a little bit?”

Our brows raise even higher. Another player behind Koutarou, Konoha Akinori, his name is, looks at them both in shock and concern. Koutarou and Keiji blissfully take no notice of this. We wait patiently and are not surprised when Keiji agrees. Koutarou’s happiness can be felt from a thousand miles away.

Keiji sets for Koutarou. Koutarou spikes. We jump at the sound the ball makes after Koutarou’s spike and we all sit in silence and shock. The gym is still thriving with noise, yet we focus on the way Koutarou faces Keiji with the biggest grin on his face, eyes closing due to happiness. “Your tosses are the best!”

Keiji’s face is blank and neutral yet there’s the underlying tinge of pink and red in his cheeks as he says, “Ah, sure.”

We can sense that it made Keiji happy—incredibly happy that he had been praised by Bokuto Koutarou, a star volleyball player. We hope that Koutarou senses this, too.

We are jostled back to the present when Koutarou hits shoulder with Keiji’s. His grin is wide and Keiji has the sinking feeling that—it never really changed, did it?

Bokuto Koutarou is still a star. And Akaashi Keiji is still the sixteen-year-old boy in love.

“Here you go,” Koutarou hums, settling onto the plastic seat and giving Keiji his coffee. It’s cold and familiar in Keiji’s hands. Their fingers brush against each other and this has happened so many times—too many to count—yet it still makes Keiji’s toes curl and for him to curl his fingers shyly against the cup. Koutarou places the tray of food on the table. Keiji raises a brow at the sight of two large fries on the tray yet stays quiet.

“Thank you, Koutarou,” Keiji murmurs instead and Koutarou turns to him with a grin. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“Keiji!” Koutarou’s voice is still so rough yet soft, beautiful and calming. “You don’t have to, geez! My treat.”

Keiji takes a sip and melts under the bittersweet taste of coffee. “Ah, a bigshot volleyball player is treating me to McDonald’s… I feel so flattered.”

“Keiji!” Koutarou whines, looking at him with a laugh. “Do you want me to treat you to some fancy dinner, is that it? Your favorite ramen place?”

Keiji pretends his heart isn’t jumping around his chest right now. _Take me out? To some fancy dinner?_ He takes a long sip of his coffee and ignores the slight pain of its coldness it gives his throat. “I won’t complain then.”

There is a sudden shift in the moment and Koutarou’s eyes look at Keiji and there is a beat—a pause, in time as he quiets down and looks at Keiji. He eyes the fingerprint-stained glasses and his messy, curly hair and his pink cheeks, his droopy eyes and his ink-stained fingers around the cup and then, his lips wrapped around the paper straw. These are all unnoticed by Keiji. Koutarou is seventeen years old again and falling in love all over again.

We look at each other, there is a pause, and then we all sigh. A pair of sensitive and lovesick boys. This must be an interesting story.

Keiji continues to sip into his coffee and Koutarou takes the time to throw an arm on the back of Keiji’s chair and to lean back against his. They both have prominent blushes on their cheeks. Keiji tries to ignore the heavy hand on the back of his seat as he slowly leans back, Koutarou’s warm hand pressing against his back as he smiles against his straw. Koutarou’s staring at his fries.

Koutarou starts a conversation about their recent training regime and Keiji—Keiji leans back a little further, slouches down his seat and turns his head to look at Koutarou, teeth relentlessly chewing on the paper straw and Koutarou’s jacket brushes against his and it’s soft and warm and a little scratchy against Keiji’s skin.

We are taken back to another memory as Koutarou talks and Keiji listens.

We are taken back to a memory, six years ago, and it was just after a match. In this memory, Keiji is seventeen and stronger, smarter, and closer to Koutarou; from Bokuto-senpai to Bokuto-san; from meeting during training only to meeting during lunch and then Koutarou is by his classroom door when classes are over and saying _Akaashi! we still have to go try out that ice cream place!_

Here is something seventeen-year-old Keiji knows about Koutarou: always catch his jacket after a match. Keiji had grown used to catching it for him, for when Koutarou goes inside and the screams and cheers make him far too egoistic, throwing his jacket in a ‘cool’ way. Keiji had accepted this and decided to give Koutarou the chance to be boastful. Besides, catching jackets wasn’t always that hard. It could be a form of training, too, Keiji excuses.

Here is something seventeen-year-old Keiji knows about Koutarou: he is bigger and broader. His clothes are bigger and broader. This includes his jackets too.

We raise our brows and wait for the surprise. We think we already know where this is going.

Here is a secret that seventeen-year-old Keiji has always kept: Bokuto-san’s jackets are bigger and warmer and softer.

Ah. Keiji, a jacket stealer.

Keiji spares us a glance and frowns. _Not a jacket stealer_ , he pouts. _I just switched them_.

You should at least feel a little bit guilty, Keiji.

Keiji’s mind speaks again. _Useless narrators._

We look back at the memory again, unfortunately. They’re in the locker room, the aftermath of victory buzzing throughout as they talk animatedly amongst themselves, laughter and shouts echoing around the room as Keiji busies himself in wearing the jacket. He tries to keep quiet, tries to not let it be obvious that the jacket he’s wearing is a bit bigger, its sleeves a bit longer, bunching by his fists.

Our eyes look for Bokuto Koutarou and we spot him right away—he’s laughing loudly among other third years and he’s looking for his jacket. We take a glance at a frantic Keiji, already zipping up the jacket and looking wide-eyed at his locker. Washio Tatsuki throws him a pair. This, we realize, is Keiji’s.

Everyone remains oblivious to this fact except for us and Keiji. We hold our breaths patiently as Koutarou puts it on. Nothing happens. Keiji looks at him with wide eyes and bated breath. No one says anything.

Keiji fists his hands against the sleeves of his jacket and tucks his chin behind it. He tries to pretend it’s actually his and tries not to think of how it smells too much like Bokuto-san.

“Wah!” Koutarou says loudly and Keiji stills. “Did I get bigger? Look!”

“Stop flexing, you look disgusting.” Akinori’s voice says and the room explodes with laughter once again. Koutarou’s voice is the loudest, complaining of rude friends and ungrateful people over beautiful bodies and Keiji hides his smile behind the jacket.

This is a secret that Keiji keeps to himself, even after five years. He can still feel the jacket against his skin and how it felt like a hug. Koutarou never noticed anything. Keiji thinks that jacket is still in the bottom of his closet, not forgotten but kept in secret, almost as if it’s a treasure.

We come back to the present and stare at Koutarou and Keiji. Keiji’s elbow is up at the table, looking at Koutarou with a laugh as he leans his head on his palms. Koutarou’s holding onto a fry, probably something he’s been meaning to eat but with his exaggerated hand gestures, has been forgotten. He’s talking about his teammates and it seems that Keiji’s familiar with all of them.

As Keiji listens, we get a sense of what he’s thinking, as he looks at Koutarou with a smile. _We’ll always be protagonists of the world_ , he thinks, and we raise our brows. Another memory? But we see nothing. Instead, Keiji looks at Koutarou and we get the feeling that Keiji and Koutarou and being protagonists have been always a set. We look at Keiji and imagine what it’s like to be that in love.

(We also imagine what it’s like to feel this way towards a boy—towards your friend and imagine that you two are protagonists against the world, no matter what other people may say. We can only imagine and look at Koutarou and Keiji and wonder if they really are protagonists.) (we hope they are)

We are reminded of Koutarou and his story and we look at him again. Quietly, we listen along.

“Ah, and Tsum-Tsum’s been spending way too much with Shoyo,” Koutarou updates him and Keiji hums absentmindedly, biting on his straw. “It’s a little concerning, don’t ya think so, Keiji?”

Keiji’s brows rise in question. “How so?”

Koutarou hums and chews on his fries. Keiji watches him, waiting. To be fair, Keiji really _was_ curious. He tries to sip on his coffee and lets out a soft _oh_ in disappointment. He’s bitten the straw too much.

“Oh, I got you more straws,” Koutarou suddenly says and Keiji turns his gaze to him in surprise. On the other side of the tray, lays three extra paper straws. Keiji stares at them in awe as Koutarou takes one and gives it to Keiji. Koutarou raises a brow when Keiji continues to stare.

“What?” Koutarou grins and Keiji blinks, hastily taking the straw. “Of course, I’d get you more straws, Keiji. You bite your straws way too much.”

Keiji replaces the straw quietly and Koutarou leans closer with a teasing smile. “Oh, what’s this? Why are you suddenly so shy?”

“I’m not shy,” Keiji glares at him and sips rather aggressively which makes Koutarou laugh. This, too, makes us smile a little. “I was just shocked.”

“Shocked?” Koutarou muses and continues to poke at his fries. “Of what? That I remember that you bite your straws? That you always complain of your bitten straws because you forget to get extra straws?”

Keiji remains quiet and his hands tighten on his cup and he rolls his eyes, something that Koutarou notices. His ears are a blossoming red and Koutarou gently taps on them. “Shut up,” Keiji mumbles. “I would’ve gotten more.”

“Hm,” Koutarou says teasingly then and he cracks his neck a little before turning back to his fries. His smile remains on his lips and he sneaks a glance at Keiji, and it only turns bigger. “Oh, have you ever told me about your day yet?”

“I have, I think.” Keiji looks at him with his brows raised and Koutarou pouts at him, tapping a piece of fry against his mouth. “Is your memory okay, Koutarou?”

“Rude!” Koutarou gasps out and Keiji laughs then, fingers adjusting his glasses and Koutarou spots the ink stains again and then—he looks at Keiji’s hands, the way they curl against the coffee cup, the way his nails are short and clean, his knuckles, how long and graceful his fingers look and—takes a deep breath.

“Hm,” Keiji says, turning to him, “I think today went a little good.”

Keiji starts talking and Koutarou listens, even when his drift to Keiji’s hands and at the stains and the way they curl and there is a soft twist in his chest.

We are taken back to a memory, except this time, it’s from Koutarou.

Here is five years ago, and Koutarou is free from high school and has left Keiji in the wake of his dust. Koutarou is still so young and new, getting scouted during nationals and on his way to being a professional volleyball player. It still seems so surreal and makes his hands shake. Koutarou thinks the world’s moving too fast yet his feet are set and running along with it. It used to scare him, but now, it feels routine.

Visiting and missing Keiji is another part of his routine. Fukurodani is the other way home but Koutarou still walks towards the familiar academy, hands shaking and sweaty inside his pockets as he nears the familiar gym he’s played at for three years. His gym bag is heavy on his shoulder, yet his heart feels heavier yet softer as he hears the familiar squeaking of shoes against the floor and the harsh thudding of balls.

Ah, he’s too early.

We watch as Koutarou idly kicks at the dirt in front of him, leaning against the wall beside the gym doors and thinking of—what? Koutarou bites his lip and stares ahead, at the students leaving the buildings and school gate. This is stupid. He shouldn’t have come here. We raise our brows at his sudden mood drop, watching as he slumps against the walls dejectedly. We get the sense that Koutarou might be leaving soon. We hope he doesn’t.

“Bokuto-san?”

We all jump with Koutarou at the familiar voice. We look to the right, and peeking out the gym doors, stands Akaashi Keiji. Koutarou grins widely and we look at Keiji closely. He’s surprised.

“Akaashi!” Koutarou answers excitedly and we hum. Ah, still in the last name basis?

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Keiji steps outside and faces Koutarou. In the gym stairs, he’s the same height as the other. “I would’ve gotten ready.”

“Akaashi!” Koutarou says again and shakes his head. “I don’t mind! I’ll wait for you, we can eat somewhere, if you wanna?”

Food is something Keiji can never reject, so he nods a bit excitedly and smiles at Koutarou. “Of course, Bokuto-san,” he smiles and then nods towards inside the gym. “You can wait inside, we’re finishing up.”

We accompany Koutarou inside the gym, taking in the _congrats!_ and the _how are you, man?_ and the _we missed you a lot, bokuto-san!_ and revel in the way Koutarou grins and stands proudly at the phrases. We almost miss the way Keiji turns to him with soft smiles and gentle eyes. We do not miss the way Keiji hides his hands behind his back, Koutarou unknowing.

We watch as Koutarou answers questions upon questions on volleyball after high school and what are his plans, and would he still visit? (“It’s the same! And I wanna play professional now, and of course, I would!”) Koutarou talks and talks and helps in cleaning and laughs with Keiji and smiles at Keiji and for a moment, Koutarou thinks that he’s still a third year and Keiji’s still a second year. Koutarou doesn’t notice the way Keiji actively hides his hands behind him.

We look at each other and wonder. What’s wrong with Keiji’s hands? Why doesn’t he want Koutarou to look at them? Unfortunately, we can’t look at Keiji’s hands. Like Koutarou, we remain in secret and unknowing.

Koutarou waits for Keiji to take a shower and he sits by the benches, singing loudly and talking about the old times and we all smile. It is a rather refreshing and calming scene, Keiji softly answering back and sometimes, singing along too, even if Koutarou doesn’t hear. Koutarou sings English songs and love songs and tries not to think too much of him and Keiji alone together and eating together later. Your heart and your emotions are feeble things, Koutarou.

When Keiji comes out, he’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and we hold our breaths at the same time as Koutarou. Koutarou feels his hands shake and—oh god, Koutarou’s feelings never really left, did they?

“Bokuto-san?” Keiji asks then, shoving his hands inside his hoodie pocket and Koutarou blinks. “Are you good to go?”

“Ah, yeah!” Koutarou grins and stands up from the bench and walks alongside Keiji out of the gym. The night sky is nearing and Koutarou marvels at the orange and pink sky.

Koutarou stares as Keiji locks the gym doors and when Keiji turns around, he stares at Koutarou and—breathes. We look at each other and think. These two are idiots.

“Let’s go, Bokuto-san,” Keiji murmurs, walking closer to him and Koutarou turns to him with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Yes?”

“Akaashi!” Koutarou gasps, looking back at the sky. “The sky!”

“I can see, Bokuto-san,” Keiji mumbles, and then, “I’m hungry.”

Koutarou stares at the sky for a moment before barking out sharp laughter. “Oh, man,” he giggles and faces Keiji again. Keiji’s brows are furrowed in slight annoyance yet he still looks so beautiful, illuminated by the yellows and oranges. Koutarou wants to kiss him. “All right, ‘Kaashi, let’s go.”

Koutarou doesn’t notice Keiji’s hands inside his pockets and we desperately scream at him to notice. Koutarou doesn’t hear us, of course. Koutarou and Keiji. Keiji and Koutarou walk towards a familiar ramen place near the academy and Koutarou boasts of treating him to anything he wants and Keiji raises his brows in challenge.

“You know, Bokuto-san,” Keiji sighs as they go inside the place, “you always regret saying that.”

It’s then Koutarou sees Keiji’s hands, sitting in front of him in the lowly-lit ramen place, Keiji removing his hands from his pockets and playing with his fingers by the table and Koutarou’s eyes narrow. “Akaashi! Look at your hands!”

Keiji freezes and we look at his hands and wince. His hands are bruised and busted, wounds accenting every other finger, at least, there wasn’t any blood. Still, Koutarou cringes at the state they’re in and doesn’t think twice in gently taking Keiji’s hands and softly running a finger over the bruises. Keiji looks at him in shock.

Koutarou tsks and shakes his head, looking at his fingers still. “You’re a setter, ‘Kaashi!” Koutarou reminds him and Keiji looks back at his hands. Koutarou stares at Keiji’s hands and feels every emotion course through his veins. Oh god, he’s holding Keiji’s hands. Koutarou feels his face heat up a little before Keiji’s fingers twitch a little and he jumps a little.

“You should be taking care of them more,” Koutarou says instead and runs his thumb over the bruises and looks up when Keiji takes a deep breath. They stare at each other and Koutarou wants to—wants to curl his fingers with Keiji’s and kiss his bruises away and—oh, god. Koutarou looks back at their hands and moves his hands away. “You should take care of them,” Koutarou says instead and turns to his gym bag, his fingers are shaking, and he can feel Keiji’s stare on him and he feels like he’d been burst open in front of Keiji.

We watch as Koutarou takes out some hand cream and bandages and turns to Keiji again. “Thank you,” Keiji mumbles and moves to take the tube of cream yet Koutarou surprises them both when he opens it himself and puts some on his hand. We watch in silence. And then we wait.

We watch as Koutarou stares at his hands for a moment before his hands move towards Keiji’s. We exhale as he wraps his hands around Keiji’s, and we raise our brows. Ah. He’s using the cream to hold Keiji’s hands. We watch silently yet we also shake our heads. They’re a bit dumb.

“You know,” Koutarou says, voice raspy and rough and he clears his throat, eyes focused on his hands rubbing and holding tightly onto Keiji’s. “You should take care of yourself more, ‘Kaashi. Your hands are the most important.”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Keiji whispers and looks at Koutarou then. Koutarou’s focused on looking at their hands and his hands are warm and soft. Koutarou thinks about what Keiji might do if he interlocks their fingers. He stares at how his palm is larger than Keiji’s, yet his fingers are a bit shorter. He stares and thinks and stares.

We are back to the present and Koutarou blinks out of his memory. We shake our heads of the memory and look at the two in shock. They’re still friends?

Keiji is laughing now, coffee cup on the table as he plays with his fingers. He’s rubbing on an ink stain. “Ah, I can see why Hinata is having a hard time, now.”

“Right!” Koutarou answers quickly and smiles widely at the way Keiji grins. “I told him to choose whoever he loves more but he’s like ‘ _but I love tobio and tsum-tsum_ ’!”

Keiji laughs again and Koutarou—god, Keiji is still so beautiful. Koutarou never fell out and he thinks he never will. Keiji leans back against his seat again and this time, he nuzzles a little closer to Koutarou’s outstretched arm. “Love is very difficult,” Keiji mumbles then, blinking at the table and Koutarou tilts his head in confusion. “I hope Hinata finds out soon.”

“Hm,” Koutarou hums and leans his head back a little, looking up at the ceiling. _I hope you do, too_.

Keiji shivers a little beside him and he turns to him. “You cold, Keiji?”

Keiji doesn’t answer him. Koutarou grins. “You wanna borrow my jacket? It can keep you warm.”

“I have a coat, Koutarou,” Keiji answers him simply but makes no effort in sitting up and taking the coat in front of them. Koutarou eyes it. We do, too, and we see that, yes, it may keep Keiji warm, but maybe not that much. “And I’m not that cold.”

And maybe, Keiji could be telling the truth but Koutarou tilts his head again before asking, “You sure? I really don’t mind. You might catch a cold.”

“And what about you?” Keiji fires back easily, turning to him. “You’re a pro. Your health is much more important than mine.”

“Not to me,” Koutarou says easily and they hold their stares against each other. Keiji’s lips twitch when Koutarou leans closer and says, “Not to me, I care about you, you know?”

“I know,” Keiji mumbles and looks down, hiding himself. “And I only said that because my coat is probably warmer than your jacket.”

“You don’t know that!” Koutarou says and moves his hand quickly and Keiji startles. He moves to unzip his jacket and Keiji looks with wide eyes. “You underestimate our clothes! I’m probably sweating underneath this jacket.”

“Gross,” Keiji says but makes no move in stopping him. “And you want me to wear it?”

“Yes,” Koutarou says simply and he’s taking off the jacket and he’s wearing a thin sweater and Keiji raises a brow. “Don’t look at me like that, Keiji.”

“So, that’s why you’re sweating,” Keiji snorts and Koutarou pouts at him, struggling a little in taking off his jacket. Keiji doesn’t help him. We laugh a little. “I’m not helping you.”

“You’re gonna be wearing one of Japan’s pro volleyball player’s jacket!” Koutarou says and he successfully takes off his jacket and Keiji smiles. “You should be boasting it, ya know!”

Keiji doesn’t answer and we, at the same time as Koutarou, watch as he graciously accepts Koutarou’s jacket and puts it on. It’s a sight to behold in. We think we are feeling the same thing as Koutarou. Koutarou’s jacket is black and compliments Keiji in the most beautiful way, the shoulders drooping down and Keiji’s hands disappearing. Koutarou wants to keep him in his arms and to kiss him forever.

“Happy?” Keiji breathes out, eyes not looking at Koutarou’s as he leans back again. Koutarou is silent.

“Not yet,” he says, and we wait in silence and shock as Koutarou leans closer and pulls the jacket closer, zipping it up. “So that you won’t be cold.”

Keiji’s breath is shaky and silent, watching Koutarou’s slender fingers zip up and up until they’re right below his chin. Koutarou’s hand brushes gently against his chin and it takes everything in Keiji’s being to not lean against the touch and to close his eyes. He kind of fails. We watch as Keiji leans closer to the touch and Koutarou smiles.

Then, like fingers snapping, Keiji blinks and moves away quickly, hiding behind the upturned collar of the jacket. “Thank you,” Keiji mumbles and Koutarou grins. Keiji wearing his jacket—his Black Jackals jacket—feels like a kiss to him. Keiji looks so beautiful wearing his jacket, holy fuck. Maybe it should be a blessing; how Koutarou is a size bigger now, muscles and body matching the vigorous training he’s experiencing and how the jacket droops over Keiji like a blanket, how he can see Keiji’s hands fisting the sleeves, and godfuck—Koutarou wants to kiss him so bad.

We watch as Koutarou looks at Keiji with a smile and Keiji—Keiji looks at his coffee cup with reddening cheeks and— _oh god, this jacket smells too much like Koutarou_ —his fingers twitch against the sleeves and he thinks, _fuck it_. Keiji moves and takes the coffee cup, jacket sleeves around the cup and thinks that this might be the end.

We giggle amongst ourselves. Oh, these two are just so oblivious, aren’t they?

Keiji brings the cup closer to his mouth and mumbles, “Thank you for the jacket.”

Koutarou grins and shrugs like it’s nothing, like seeing Keiji wearing _his_ jacket doesn’t make him want to scream loudly. “It’s nothing,” he shrugs, leaning back against his seat. “Oh, yeah, where were we?”

Keiji bites his straw and smiles softly. “Hinata and Tsum-Tsum and Tobio.”

“Ah, Keiji!” Koutarou perks up as if remembering something. “Have we been to Myaa-sam’s store? His onigiri is the best!”

At the mention of the food, Keiji’s eyes widen and Koutarou smirks. He turns to Koutarou with wide eyes. “Koutarou! We haven’t.”

“Ah, but you tasted one of his onigiri’s already, right?” Koutarou thinks, placing a hand beneath his chin. “At that one match, yeah?”

“Yes,” Keiji nods solemnly and Koutarou bites his lip to stop from laughing. “But it would definitely be different if it were at his store, Koutarou.”

“Fine, fine,” Koutarou laughs and slouches down his seat. His eyes are focused on Keiji and him sipping through the straw before he gingerly places it down again. His own hands, covered with the jacket sleeves, cups his own face and Koutarou feels like fainting. “I—yeah, we can go next time.”

Keiji sighs softly and Koutarou can see where his hands stop by the sleeves and the way it droops down by his face. Koutarou thinks that maybe giving his Keiji his jacket was a bad move. “That’ll be nice, Koutarou,” Keiji says softly, hiding behind his sleeves and Koutarou wants to hug him and holds his hands.

We’re taken back into a memory again, at the same time Koutarou thinks, _Keiji has always been touchy, huh?_

Here is two years ago, and Koutarou’s running as fast as he can, probably beating all his previous records, and the night wind is cold and sharp against his cheeks. There’s bags upon bags of food hanging by his arms and there’s a slight sloshing inside his bag. Drinks? We watch anxiously as Koutarou runs. We whisper impatiently amongst ourselves.

_Where is he going?_

_What is he doing?_

_What’s happening?_

_What’s wrong?_

Then, flashing in front of us, is Keiji’s last message to Koutarou.

**bokuto-san? yes, i am okay. i just feel a little bad. nothing new. you don’t have to come.**

And maybe, if it were us being sent that, we would’ve listened. But when Koutarou had received the message, right after practice, he had hastily finished cleaning up alongside the others and had probably mumbled gibberish that Atsumu could only understand _Akaashi_ and _need to go_ and had taken a quick convenience store trip. We watch yet again.

Maybe Koutarou knows Keiji more than we let on.

We are back to Koutarou running and his thoughts are jumbled and messy, feet moving on instinct, the path towards Keiji’s apartment familiar and easy.

Soon enough, we find ourselves in front of Keiji’s apartment and it’s quiet and dark and the only thing we can hear is Koutarou’s heavy breathing. The plastic bags rustle on his arms as he takes a hand up and rings on the doorbell. He runs a hand through his messy and sweaty hair, the strands falling over his eyes in his haste. We all wait. There’s heavy padding coming from inside the apartment. The door opens. And with it, Keiji appears, hair messy, glasses drooping down his nose and body swimming in an oversized— _over_ sized—black sweater. Koutarou blinks. Is he wearing pants?

Keiji stares blankly and then his eyes widen. “ _Bokuto-san_?”

“Hi,” Koutarou says and stares at Keiji. Keiji stares back and then he moves behind the door.

“Don’t you have practice?”

Koutarou steps inside and it’s then he realizes. Maybe he overanalyzed Keiji’s message? But he looks back at Keiji and—he isn’t wearing pants.

“I did,” Koutarou answers quickly, thinking of how awkward it must’ve been to not answer him. “I just—your message.”

Keiji closes the door and leans against it. He doesn’t meet Koutarou’s eyes. We realize that this is okay. Koutarou’s looking at his sweater and looking at where it ends, by Keiji’s knees, and he—Koutarou stares.

Keiji looks up at the same time as Koutarou and we hold our breaths.

Koutarou opens his arms. We wait.

And then, Keiji walks slowly and falls into Koutarou’s chest and Koutarou wraps his arms around Keiji, hard and tight. Keiji thumps his forehead lightly against Koutarou’s shoulder and sighs, heavily, deeply.

“College sucks,” Keiji mumbles and Koutarou only tightens his grip. Keiji is warm and new and familiar and fits perfectly in Koutarou’s arms.

They stay like that for a while, by the front door, the bags of food rustling against Keiji’s body, Koutarou’s gym bag heavy and familiar by his shoulder, and Keiji softly sniffling by his shoulder.

Then, Keiji laughs a little and Koutarou looks down at him. “I’m sorry,” he says yet makes no move to pull away. “I’m acting so weird right now.”

“Not weird,” Koutarou murmurs, tightening his grip and holding him closer. Keiji’s hair brushes against his chin and ear and he closes his eyes, swaying softly. “It’s okay to feel this way, ‘Kaashi.”

Keiji answers with a sniffle. Koutarou’s heart aches and he just hugs Keiji close to him, taking him in. He’d seen Keiji sad before—had comforted him and had given him countless hugs—but not like this. It hurt Koutarou a bit too much.

“You wanna sit on the couch?” Koutarou whispers and Keiji sniffles again. “I bought you onigiri, but they’re from 7/11.”

Keiji lets out a laugh, wet and soft and Koutarou smiles. “It’s okay,” he whispers hoarsely, sniffling. “I still like it.”

When they walk along the small space towards the couch, Koutarou’s arm is around Keiji’s shoulders and Keiji doesn’t move nor hide away from him. Koutarou glances at him and feels his heart clench at Keiji’s red cheeks, tears collecting by the ends of his eyes and the way his eyelashes clump together wetly.

It happens too naturally between them, the way Koutarou sits back against the familiar couch, dumping his gym bag by his feet and pushing the bags of food by his side. Keiji stands in front of him, arms around him and Koutarou looks at him expectantly.

“What’s wrong?” Koutarou asks, patting the space next to him. “Scared of ya own couch?”

“Shut up,” Keiji mumbles and then, slowly and gracefully, Keiji sits beside him and is quick to pull his knees up to his chest, resting his chin against them, hands wrapped around his bare legs. Koutarou stares and stares. Then, he stares at Keiji’s blank stare on the low coffee table and waits.

We wait alongside with them, and as quiet and stillness envelopes them, Keiji’s breathing heavy yet slow, sniffles a constant sound, Koutarou’s body, heavy and warm, so close yet so far from him, keeping quiet and still, often tapping his fingers on his knees. Our eyes eventually leave them, and we look at Keiji’s apartment and look.

His apartment is small yet enough for one person. The living room, small as it is with the couch, acts as Keiji’s bedroom, too. There’s a large desk shoved at the side, filled with books and paper, mugs and jars complete with pens and highlighters, and a blanket by the chair. Surprisingly, there’s a huge amount of photos taped around the wall in front of the desk, all with Keiji with different people yet there’s a constant beside him: Koutarou. We stare at the photos for a moment and think. Someone with bleached blond hair is seen in a lot, next to a tall guy with unruly hair. We take note of the two and look at other photos.

There is Keiji with his team, big grins on their faces, even when there are visible tear tracks in Keiji’s cheeks.

There is Keiji and Koutarou, a piece of arcade photo paper, taped messily on the wall. There’s lewd messages and drawings and hearts and small doodles.

There is Keiji and his family, seated around a long table and smiling happily at the camera.

There is Keiji, in front of different sceneries and statues and backgrounds. Sometimes, he’s with a certain group of people. These people, we assume, are his new friends at his university.

We look and look and see more of Keiji as we go through his apartment.

Close to the living and bedroom, is the kitchen that occupies most of the space in the apartment. It looks like a basic kitchen; a small fridge littered with sticky notes and lists and recipes Keiji wants to try out; there’s a small table, fit for four, that looks to be unused, most meals eaten in the small coffee table by the bedroom; grocery bags still out in the open; and then, by the table, a stray jacket, left there probably days ago. It’s white and we can vaguely make out a black panther logo.

There is a piece of Koutarou everywhere in Keiji’s tiny apartment.

“Hey, Keiji?”

Koutarou’s voice snaps us back to the quiet pair and we return our eyes to them. Koutarou’s eyes are looking at Keiji now, and there’s a weird static between them, a tender and delicate moment, and Koutarou’s voice has softly tapped into it.

“Hm,” Keiji hums, eyes still on the coffee table and it makes Koutarou worry a little.

It happens slowly yet quickly—in Koutarou’s eyes—how Keiji had moved a little closer to him and then gently rested his head against Koutarou’s shoulder. Koutarou seems to understand now why the coffee table must be stared at. Keiji’s body is soft and warm against his.

“Nothing,” Koutarou whispers then, “do you want me to hold you? Or do you wanna talk about it?”

A slight shuffle beside him. Keiji’s sweater is big and warm and soft. His legs are long and smooth and tan. It fucks with Koutarou for a moment.

“Can you hold me,” Keiji mumbles, soft and whispery, we almost miss it yet Koutarou doesn’t. Koutarou always listens, can always hear the telltale mumbles of Keiji’s and understands and does. He shifts a little, leans back a little, comfortable and quiet, and wraps an arm around Keiji’s shoulders.

Keiji exhales. Koutarou does, too.

Keiji moves even closer with his arm around his shoulder and there’s a shaky exhale. His thighs press against Koutarou’s and they’re warm and heavy. Koutarou turns to him again and asks, “Do you want to eat?”

“Yeah,” Keiji whispers, arms tightening around his legs. “Onigiri?”

Koutarou lets out a laugh and nods, using one hand to try and find the onigiri he bought amidst the multiple plastic bags. Koutarou doesn’t know how, but he’s managed to successfully open one with only one hand and he hands it to Keiji, who’s quick to untangle his arms around his legs and to grab it.

The minutes go slow, the both of them eating and taking turns in drinking between Koutarou’s single can of soda. Eventually, Keiji talks. And Koutarou listens, silent and caring, fingers twitching against his thighs as Keiji often moves and shuffles a little closer.

Keiji talks of loneliness, how college is too hard and fast, everything happening a bit too quickly, Keiji falling behind and Keiji moving a little too slow. Keiji talks of loneliness and being alone and how high school wasn’t anything like this, how it feels a hundred years away. Keiji feels too young and too old, in the middle of loneliness and happiness and he feels like he’s far too behind of everyone. Keiji feels like he doesn’t know what’s happening with him and anything. Keiji talks and talks and talks and Koutarou—Koutarou pulls him closer and closer and closer.

Amidst it all, in between the soft confessions and sadness, Keiji’s legs find themselves on top of Koutarou’s and Koutarou’s hands gently massages the soft skin, fingers going in circles and rubbing them gently. Keiji’s eyes focus on his hands and his thighs often flex under his touch. It takes everything in Koutarou not to do—anything.

Amidst it all, Koutarou’s arm moves from Keiji’s shoulder down to his waist, Keiji’s skin warm and hot beneath the thick sweater as Koutarou pulls him close. Amidst it all, Keiji is comfortably closer and even impossibly so, but still, he moves and shuffles closer, missing the touch and warmth of the other. Koutarou gives it to him, gives it to him through gentle touches on his legs, the arm around his stomach, flexing and reminding him he’s here and real.

Koutarou wonders if this is what it means to be best friends; if this is what it’s like to hold another and to try and make them laugh. Koutarou wonders if this is Keiji as a best friend and a lover, quiet and soft and touchy. Koutarou wonders and looks at Keiji’s tear-stained cheeks and soft smile.

Koutarou decides that maybe, this is okay. Maybe it’s okay to stay like this. Keiji, in arms reach yet still unreachable. Maybe Koutarou can settle for this, it’s okay.

Koutarou blinks out of his memory when Keiji pokes him.

“You haven’t been listening, have you?” Keiji pouts a little and Koutarou wants to kiss him. He thinks about that memory and how it changed everything; how it blurred the line between love and friendship between them; how Keiji’s warmth and touch had sparked fireworks upon fireworks of heat in Koutarou’s skin; how Koutarou had longed and yearned to cup Keiji’s face and to kiss him breathlessly.

“I’ve been listening!” Koutarou perks up and looks away from Keiji in his jacket. He still has fries left. Or soggy fries. We look at it in disdain. “You were talking about manga.”

“Of course, I was,” Keiji deadpans, turning to him with raised brows. “I’m a manga editor.”

Koutarou pouts. “I was just joking, geez!”

“If you’re tired, we can go,” Keiji suggests and Koutarou turns to him. “You still have morning training, right?”

“Eh,” Koutarou shrugs and grins when Keiji punches him softly. “What?”

“It’s nearing one am,” Keiji checks his watch and looks at him in worry. “Are you sure a pro player like you should be staying up late?”

Koutarou stares at him. Keiji rolls his eyes. “I’m never calling you a pro player ever again.”

“ _Keiji_!” Koutarou whines, moving closer to him with a pout. He elbows Keiji and the other turns to him with a frown. “How dare you say that!”

“You have a big enough ego now, I’m sure,” Keiji answers him and holds onto his coffee cup. It’s empty now, yet he feels like drinking more. Koutarou tuts.

“No more coffee for you,” Koutarou says, leaning back. “And my ego isn’t big!”

“If you say so,” Keiji smirks and there’s silence between them before, “I’m gonna buy another one.”

“No!” Koutarou laughs, “that’s going to be your third one this night!”

Keiji slumps against the chair, _pouting_ , and Koutarou kind of short-circuits. “Ruthless,” he mumbles, side eyeing Koutarou. “You’re ruthless and cruel.”

“Keiji,” Koutarou says seriously, facing him. Keiji reluctantly meets his eyes. “It’s nearing one am, on a Tuesday night. You are _not_ getting another cup of iced coffee.”

Keiji pouts at him. Our eyes switch between the two—from Keiji’s pout and crossed arms to Koutarou’s hard gaze and lips pressed into a line. We then look at each other. What’s gonna happen? Who’s gonna give in?

“Fine,” Koutarou groans out and we raise our brows at his easy defeat. “But don’t blame me when you can’t sleep later.”

“I never blame you,” Keiji scoffs to him, rolling his eyes. “I just want coffee.”

And so, Keiji buys himself another cup of iced coffee, posture straight and confident and Koutarou fixes his gaze on him, feeling his veins course and flex in every part of his body, snapping and going whole, over and over again.

Keiji looks too good wearing his jacket.

Koutarou wants to kiss Keiji so bad.

Koutarou’s eyes don’t leave Keiji’s as he talks to the cashier, leans a little against the counter, squints at the menu like he’s going to order other stuff, when we all know he’s going to come back to Koutarou with just coffee.

Ah. Koutarou feels his cheeks heat up a little. Keiji’s going to come back to Koutarou. He hopes it stays that way.

(even if that means to going back to their greasy table at a local mcdonald’s, when it’s late at night)

When Keiji comes back, Koutarou thinks that maybe this isn’t how best friends should look at each other, this isn’t how best friends treat each other—Koutarou’s been in love with Keiji for, almost, seven years and being called his best friend used to mean so much to him but sometimes, it hurts, it makes Koutarou stare at his ceiling and ache for—

Keiji pokes at his wrinkled forehead. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

Keiji sits down and exhales softly. There’s three straws in one hand and his large coffee in the other. Koutarou grins.

“Nothing,” he hums. “What do you think of a Black Jackals reality TV show?”

“Fail,” Keiji says instantly and Koutarou gasps in horror. “I don’t think anyone would like to know what happens every morning.”

“ _Nothing_ happens every morning,” Koutarou contradicts with a whisper, “what are you talking about?”

Keiji stares at him. Koutarou stares back.

And, all right, look. Maybe we _should_ listen to what Keiji and Koutarou are talking about, should probably listen in on their conversation and try to dissect the small smiles and gentle voices and subtle touches but, oh god—we’ve been here for _three_ hours and all they’ve done is look at and love each other.

We stare and contemplate in horror at what could’ve happened in those seven years of being best friends.

When did the line between best friends and lovers start to blur? Where did feelings come and meet? Amidst it all, did they really just consider the other as a best friend?

Was there a time where Keiji had looked a bit longer at Koutarou?

Did Koutarou’s hands ever twitch towards Keiji, the familiar ache of tenderness and clinginess clawing at his bones and skin, desperate to be noticed?

How many times has Keiji pulled at Koutarou’s jacket sleeve, voice a low murmur as he points at a shop he wants to check, interest piqued?

Has the thought of kissing Keiji breathlessly and wordlessly ever leave Koutarou’s mind? Fleeting and then staying at the age of eighteen, Keiji’s lips a soft red and wet with his tongue, a soft pink that swipes out just as quick, yet Koutarou’s eyes catching the quick movement.

In all those moments, Keiji was always in love with Koutarou, wasn’t he?

And in all those moments, Koutarou loved him back, just as much.

Yet in all those moments still, they were just two idiots, two sensitive and lovesick boys in love.

Best friends can only love each other to a certain point.

We shake our heads and look back at Keiji and Koutarou.

They’re both laughing quietly now, voices sleepy and soft, bodies gravitating towards each other, painfully aware of the time but childishly ignoring it. We look a little closer at the same time Koutarou leans back and smiles cheekily at Keiji.

Something happened, we think, a large shift in the moment, a small nudge from the universe, a go signal from destiny.

Before we know it, Koutarou’s taking off his cap and his hair falls messily, framing his face and stopping by his eyebrows. Keiji stares and feels like he’s been plummeted underground. Keiji thinks he’d always fall in love with Koutarou, in the dark, under the bright, gym lights, among the harsh car headlights, under the yellow, fluorescent lights McDonald’s has.

Koutarou purses his lips and Keiji pouts his. “What,” Koutarou laughs then, looking at Keiji with a confused look, even when his heart burns at the way the other looks at him. “Missing the cap already?”

Keiji tilts his head and feels his heart stutter in his chest when Koutarou leans closer with a teasing smile. “Hm,” he hums instead, shakiness and nervousness climbing up his throat as he says, “don’t know. You look cuter with your hair down.”

 _Handsomer, better, the best, I wanna kiss you_ , floats through Keiji’s mind before it registers what he’s actually said.

Yeah. Keiji is definitely blushing now.

Here is Koutarou: age twenty-four, inside a random McDonald’s at one in the morning, hair messy and not styled up, cool, chill air blowing through his thin sweater, and staring at the boy he’s been in love with for seven years. 

And said boy is blushing, red occupying his cheeks, ears turning soft pink, eyes staring at Koutarou’s, after saying that Koutarou is cute.

Keiji clears his throat and there is a moment of confidence, a flash of bravery as he sits up a little taller and leans a bit closer. “Your hair,” he continues to say and Koutarou’s silent eyes watching him. “You should let it rest from the gel, sometimes, Koutarou.”

Koutarou hums and he tilts his head up, brows raised at the other. “My hair is _really_ soft, Keiji,” he grins and drops a wink. “The gel doesn’t destroy it!”

Keiji snorts. Koutarou squawks in offense. “ _Hey_!”

“I’ve known you for so long,” Keiji sighs and looks at him with sad eyes. “I know how much gel you consume, Koutarou. I pray for your hair every day, you know?”

Koutarou lets out a sharp laugh at that and shakes his head at Keiji. Keiji keeps his stare blank, even when there’s a hint of a smile at his lips. “My hair is perfectly fine!” Koutarou laughs and looks at him weirdly. “You’re so weird, Keiji! You know how soft my hair is!”

“Hm, no, I don’t,” Keiji teases him, a grin finally surfacing on his lips, flirty and sweet. “I seem to remember your very damaged hair, Koutarou-san.”

“Using honorifics _now_?”

“Koutarou-san,” Keiji says teasingly, laughter spilling at the ends of his words. “Ah! My favorite player, Bokuto-san!”

“Your compliments won’t heal the damage you’ve caused me!” Koutarou laughs, shaking his head at Keiji’s antics and glares at him playfully. “Your favorite player’s hair is _soft_!”

“MSBY groupie,” Keiji says suddenly and maybe it shouldn’t be so funny, it doesn’t even make any sense, and surely, it shouldn’t make Koutarou laugh loudly, but still, he does, covering his mouth with his hands as he lowers his head against the table, laughter erupting out of him as his shoulders shake uncontrollably.

“Ah, you’re so weird,” Keiji tries to say seriously, even when there’s a telltale hint of laughter and a smile in his words. “Is this how you treat a MSBY groupie?”

“Stop,” Koutarou wheezes out, hands tightly covering his mouth as he tries to avoid Keiji’s leaning face and curious eyes. “Stop saying you’re a groupie!”

Keiji sighs deeply and Koutarou snorts. “But it’s the truth,” he whines, poking at Koutarou’s shaking shoulders. “Why are you so against me being a MSBY groupie?”

“Stop it,” Koutarou wheezes out, shaking his head and trying to control his laughter. “Keiji, _nooo_.”

Keiji is close now, so close, laughter ringing in Koutarou’s eyes. “Koutarou-san,” he says, laughter accenting his words, now barely understandable, “why do you treat your fans like this? Ah…”

When Koutarou turns his head to look at him, Keiji’s face is close—so close that he can see Keiji’s freckles, the tiny beauty marks adoring his face, his eyelashes and how long they are, fluttering gently against his cheeks. Koutarou blinks and Keiji smiles at him.

“Hi,” Keiji whispers then and Koutarou can easily bump his nose against his. “Koutarou-san?”

“Shut up,” Koutarou murmurs and grins at him. “Do I know you?”

Keiji’s eyes widen and Koutarou marvels at the way his eyelashes look, soft and long, his lips parting slightly. “I’m your biggest fan!”

Keiji’s nose bumps against Koutarou’s and it takes him everything not to—toss everything aside and just kiss Keiji hopelessly. Koutarou looks back at his eyes and thinks if Keiji’s lips are as soft as they look.

Then, Koutarou feels hands on his hair and he sees Keiji’s raised hand. “Hm,” Keiji hums, face still so close and vulnerable in front of Koutarou’s. Keiji’s hands are warm and familiar, soft and even hesitating to touch Koutarou’s hair.

“Soft, isn’t it?” Koutarou rasps out and licks his lips, and this time, he doesn’t miss the way Keiji’s eyes drift down to the movement, staying on his lips for a while before snapping back to his gaze. Koutarou doesn’t miss it. He never wants to miss anything with Keiji ever again.

We look at each other and wish that Koutarou has a spark of bravery, a rush of courage. Maybe we should give Koutarou a push, a small nudge.

_Kiss the boy, you idiot! Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him!_

Koutarou grabs Keiji’s wrist and Keiji’s deep inhale of a shaky breath stays in Koutarou’s mind. Keiji is so close, so, so close, and his lips are trembling, yet his eyes don’t leave Koutarou’s.

“Koutarou-san,” Keiji whispers, lips quirked up albeit teasingly and Koutarou’s heart stutters in his chest. “Is this how you treat your fans?”

Koutarou’s grip on Keiji’s wrist tightens and Keiji blinks. “Hm,” he hums, rubbing small circles on his wrist with his thumb, “are you really a fan?”

Keiji’s smile is soft and small and he leans impossibly closer. “Of course, I am,” he whispers, lips almost brushing against Koutarou’s and we hold our breaths. “Kou-ta-rou-san, you’re my favorite.”

Koutarou lowers their hands and Keiji’s wrist is warm and so close to him. Koutarou looks at Keiji’s wrists and rubs a thumb over a vein and doesn’t look when Keiji exhales again.

“You’re my favorite, too,” Koutarou rasps out then, pulling his wrist closer to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to his vein, hand tightening its grip. “Kei-ji.”

Keiji’s exhale is shaky and deep and Koutarou looks at him again, lips still pressed against his wrists and Keiji’s eyes are hooded and dark, staring at him with a high blush on his cheeks. Keiji’s fingers twitch and Koutarou’s grip tightens.

“Koutarou,” Keiji breathes out and his eyes flutter, tongue flashing out to lick at his bottom lip. Koutarou wants to kiss him so bad.

“Keiji,” Koutarou whispers, sitting up a little and finding satisfaction in the way Keiji follows his gaze, still.

Koutarou’s grip on his wrist softens and it’s like water flowing between them—smooth and relaxed—how Koutarou’s hands swim up gently and the way his fingers bump against Keiji’s wrist. The way Keiji looks at him with hooded eyes still, lips parted slightly. The way Keiji’s fingers twitch towards Koutarou’s. Koutarou’s soft touches on his palm, eventually moving up until his fingers find the spaces between Keiji’s and their palms touch and it’s almost a kiss—a kiss they’ve been wanting to do since forever.

Here is something we know: Koutarou and Keiji have been best friends for seven years. Koutarou and Keiji have been in love with each other for seven years. They have held hands, intentionally or not, as friends or not, in those seven years. Yet why does tonight feel so different and new?

We look at each other and exhale.

For now, we look away from Koutarou and Keiji and their intertwined hands and their lingering gazes and look outside.

We briefly look at the time: **1: 48 AM**. The streets are empty and quiet, the once busy crowd now down to five people at most, walking sluggishly and slow, some even looking up at the night sky before continuing on their way. The once bright lights have been shut off, the streets now casted by the white and bright, fluorescent streetlights. The part of the world in front of the familiar McDonald’s is illuminated by its bright yellow lights and we marvel at the quietness, the stillness of the word. The once loud streets accompanied with loud pop music has been silenced, the only sounds heard are the soft pattering of shoes against concrete.

It’s quiet in a comforting way, we notice, as our eyes mindlessly follow each person that passes by—be it an overly tired businessman; a teenage boy sneaking off, nervousness high in his features; a couple, standing side by side and talking quietly amongst themselves; and then, our eyes find focus on a teenage girl, slouched and walking quietly, hands held tightly onto her bag straps. Her bleached blond hair falls around her face, as she walks towards the fast food place with calculated steps and not once looking up from her shoes. We wait patiently as she stands in front of the restaurant and gingerly opens the door.

There’s few people now, including Koutarou and Keiji, still blissfully holding each other’s hands, and we can make out another teenage girl by the corner, fries in front of her as she reads a book. Our eyes go back to the blond teenager and watch as she looks around before walking up to the counter, voice soft and quiet. We use this to look around the familiar place, enjoying the quietness of the atmosphere, the soft music playing on the speakers, a low, constant sound. The employees are all quiet, enjoying the temporary peacefulness as they await for customers.

For a moment, we forget of the emotional turmoil that is named Koutarou and Keiji.

We return our eyes to Koutarou and Keiji. They’re still holding hands and we can feel the nervousness and tension from here, as Koutarou’s eyes stare into Keiji’s and how Keiji’s hands squeeze Koutarou’s and it’s like a spell being broken.

Koutarou lowers their hands and we watch quietly and impatiently. “Keiji,” Koutarou whispers and the other lets out a soft sound from the back of his throat, eyes finding his and there’s this vulnerability in them, the way Keiji opens up for him. It makes Koutarou feel like he’s being cut open himself, it makes his blood rush through him as Keiji stares at him like this—how many times has Keiji looked at him like this? How many times was Koutarou too oblivious?

Koutarou’s other hand goes to cradle Keiji’s jaw and it’s so familiar, the action so easy to do that it makes Koutarou wonder: when did loving become so easy?

Keiji’s cheek is soft and warm underneath his palm, and Koutarou is taken back to being seventeen years old and wanting to kiss Keiji. Some things never change.

Time seems to stop for them, how Keiji squeezes Koutarou’s hand in nervousness and waits for— _something_ to happen.

Three things happen:

Koutarou, gently and swiftly, runs a thumb over Keiji’s bottom lip, marveling at the way it pushes and feels underneath his thumb, red and soft.

Keiji lets out a soft sound, a soft _o-oh_ , breathing out shakily and sucking in his breath, fingers clenching tight around Koutarou’s sweaty ones.

Somewhere in the restaurant, something falls. A book, or a tray, or a notebook. But it clutters to the ground and Koutarou blinks.

It startles him to realization.

He pulls away, from Keiji’s tight hold, from Keiji’s lips, from Keiji.

 _Shit_.

Keiji’s staring at him, lips wet and red, eyes hooded and dark, and it fucks with Koutarou—fucks with him far too much. It scares him; scares him how much he’s shown himself to Keiji, how far he’s gone tonight, how far he’s breached the line between best friends and lovers. It scares Koutarou and his hands shake at where he’s placed them back in his pocket.

“Let’s go home,” Koutarou rasps out and Keiji blinks at him. His glasses are falling down. “C’mon, Keiji, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you home.”

“What,” Keiji mumbles and Koutarou stands up a little too quickly, heart bleeding out of his chest, heart beating a little too loudly in his ears. “Okay.”

Keiji is quiet beside him, drowning in Koutarou’s jacket. Koutarou has Keiji’s iced coffee in his hand, his gym bag on his shoulder and he nods at the late-night workers as they leave the restaurant.

We exhale. The night air is cold and slow, hitting their cheeks abruptly and they both shiver as they step foot outside. There are less people now, and it shouldn’t make sense for Koutarou to look at Keiji, small and quiet beside him, chin huddled behind the zipped-up jacket, and to throw an arm around Keiji’s shoulders, pulling him close.

Koutarou doesn’t know if he should be thankful that Keiji’s apartment is close from here.

Koutarou wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Keiji wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Their steps are synchronized and soft, yet there’s still the familiar sound of shoes against concrete and it relaxes Keiji a little, makes him sigh a little in relief, hands clenching around Koutarou’s jacket sleeves and then—it dawns to him.

Koutarou’s arm around his shoulders is heavy and familiar and Keiji almost stops walking.

_what the fuck just happened?_

Keiji risks a glance at Koutarou beside him and feels his breath hitch in his throat. Koutarou isn't looking at him, eyes focused in front of him, probably deep in thought as they walk towards his apartment. Koutarou’s side-profile is breathtaking. Keiji wants to kiss him.

Koutarou pulls him closer and Keiji bites his bottom lip from behind the jacket and feels like this night has been the weirdest night of his life. Keiji wonders if this is where their friendship changes or ends.

 _If this is where we part ways_ , Keiji thinks, when they near his apartment, _I might as well do it_.

Keiji sneaks an arm out and wraps it around Koutarou’s waist. He smiles in the way Koutarou stops walking and lets out a surprised sound at the back of his throat.

Koutarou glances down at Keiji and his heart stutters in his chest when he sees the small smile Keiji has, the way his eyes glance down at his shoes, his cheeks a soft red. He pulls Keiji closer and Keiji’s hold on his waist tightens and Koutarou wonders if it’s okay to be like this with Keiji, in the late-night hours.

This is where Koutarou and Keiji are, in the quiet Tokyo streets, night air blowing through them, making them shiver, the yellow streetlights accompany them in their wake. This is where Koutarou and Keiji are, past the line of being best friends, yet not even quite reaching the line of lovers. This is where Koutarou and Keiji are, in each other’s arms, walking silently and in sync, towards Keiji’s apartment.

Keiji wonders if wanting to spend time alone with your once-captain of a best friend, especially in his tiny apartment, is normal.

Koutarou wonders if thinking excessively about Keiji wearing his jacket is normal.

Koutarou wants to kiss Keiji.

He might.

Keiji wants to kiss Koutarou.

He might.

The walk up the stairs to Keiji’s is awkward, to say the least. Koutarou moves away from Keiji and Keiji does, too, even if it’s a bit slow and unwanted. Koutarou can still feel Keiji’s arm around his waist. Keiji can still feel the heavy weight of Koutarou’s arm around his shoulders.

Koutarou doesn’t say anything, and Keiji doesn’t either. We think it’s a little hopeless, a little useless, for the night to end like this. What were all those three hours? We watch in impatience as Koutarou accompanies Keiji up to this apartment. We get the feeling that Koutarou might leave soon. We get the feeling that Koutarou might coward out of this feeling.

They both stand in front of the door and Keiji inhales. Koutarou has his hands in his pockets now, and he wants to leave (he doesn’t), he wants to go walk away and give Keiji the peace he deserves. Maybe, Koutarou thinks, this is how friendships end. As easy as it is, as hard as it feels.

Koutarou doesn’t speak. He doesn’t wanna say goodnight, in fear that it might be the last time he’ll ever be able to say it. Koutarou wonders if his stupidity is something that might get him killed. Or maybe it’s the way he’s too in love with Keiji, the way he almost risked it all earlier. (The feel of Keiji’s lips underneath his thumb is worth everything, and Koutarou would do anything to do it again.) (Or maybe, he’d do anything, just to kiss Keiji, just to feel his lips against his—would Keiji gasp a little, when he does? would Keiji’s lips fit perfectly right into his?)

“Do you wanna go inside?” Keiji speaks up and Koutarou turns to him in shock. Keiji’s playing with his fingers, eyes not meeting Koutarou’s. “It’s—It’s a little late, you can sleep here, if you—if you wanna.”

Keiji’s stuttering. This is the first time Koutarou’s heard him do so. Keiji looks so beautiful, dark and hidden away, only dimly lit by a far-off streetlight. Koutarou doesn’t know what might happen when he’s alone with Keiji right now—the both of them sleepy and vulnerable, alone in Keiji’s tiny apartment, right after what happened earlier. Koutarou thinks he’ll melt away.

“Sure,” he says instead and smiles softly at the way Keiji turns to him in shock. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Koutarou feels like he should’ve said no instead. Koutarou feels like he shouldn’t have said yes so easily, maybe trusted his mind more than his heart. This would’ve been easier if his feelings stayed in his heart, if he didn’t hold Keiji’s hands earlier and had felt his lip beneath his thumb.

Koutarou looks at Keiji; Keiji opening the door; Keiji opening the lights around the living room; Keiji quietly taking off his shoes, yellow socks in display; and Koutarou looks at Keiji, quiet and small and soft in the tiny apartment, wearing Koutarou’s jacket, dropping by his thighs, and wonders what it’s like to not be in love.

We pause. We wonder if this is where it starts.

Koutarou follows in his footsteps and thinks if this where he should just say fuck it.

We hope he does.

It’s quiet between them, we notice. Koutarou’s still by the door. Keiji ‘s footsteps are quiet, walking towards the couch—the familiar couch that still makes Koutarou’s heart stutter.

“Koutarou?” Keiji says then, the first words spoken between them and he looks up to see Keiji sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest and he’s looking at Koutarou with the same look—the hooded, dark eyes, the soft blush on his cheeks and Koutarou wants to curse at everyone. “Come here, please?”

Koutarou does. He sits close to Keiji, marvels at the way he looks wearing Koutarou’s jacket, marvels at Keiji like he’s always done.

“I have to say something,” Keiji mumbles, pulling his knees impossibly closer. His chin is resting on his knees and he’s not looking at Koutarou, eyes focused on the space of the couch between them. “Don’t interrupt me, okay?”

Koutarou feels like he’s been dumped in cold water. “Okay,” he whispers and moves closer, then leans back on the couch. He can’t sit still. “Yeah, okay, Keiji.”

“Koutarou,” Keiji whispers, after minutes of silence between them, and his fingers are playing with each other, Koutarou notices, and he brings his knees closer to him. “I think you know how much I struggle with—with my emotions, with my feelings.”

Koutarou stays quiet. We feel like we shouldn’t be listening, but we stay. We stay in the tiny apartment with Koutarou and Keiji. We look at Keiji’s tiny form, hugging himself and his insecurities. We look at Koutarou’s tall form, leaned back against the couch as he looks at Keiji with worry and love. We stay and stay.

We hope Keiji and Koutarou do, too.

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji says suddenly and it makes Koutarou jump and blink, at the nostalgia of the way it sounds in Keiji’s lips. “You confuse me.”

Koutarou wants to speak, but he doesn’t. We applaud him for it.

“I like you,” Keiji whispers out then, burying his face deeper inside Koutarou’s jacket. “I love you; I think. I loved you for so long, Bokuto-san— _Koutarou_. And maybe it’s my fault, maybe I should’ve been more careful, maybe I shouldn’t be this affectionate and I’m sorry, Koutarou. And it’s my fault, for being confused. I’ll try and not to be affectionate anymore, I think.

“Because when you do stuff like that,” Keiji continues, arms squeezing his knees tight. “It confuses me. You’re the only one who holds my hand like that, you’re the only one who kisses my wrists like that, and I haven’t had a best friend before you, and it confuses me if that’s how best friends work because I don’t want you to be my best friend anymore.”

We ignore Koutarou and instead focus on Keiji. Keiji brings a hand up and brushes his fingers over his lips and Koutarou’s brain short-circuits. “When you did this,” Keiji says, eyes focused on the couch and he seems so far away, inside a memory, “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to kiss you, Koutarou. That’s not how best friends work, right?”

Koutarou stares at Keiji’s lips and forgets how to speak.

“This is stupid,” Keiji says then, covering his mouth with his hand and straightens up. “I’m sorry, Koutarou. I shouldn’t have said anything—please, please forget I ever said anything. Maybe I was just looking deep into things; I’m sorry, you can leave—”

“What?” Koutarou finds his voice and Keiji looks at him. “Keiji, what? No. I’m not leaving—I’m staying.”

Keiji sniffles. He doesn’t look at Koutarou. “I’m not leaving,” Koutarou says again and moves a little closer. “Keiji—oh god, everything you’ve said is my favorite.”

Keiji looks up at him and Koutarou leans closer and grabs Keiji’s wrists. “What?” Keiji whispers and his eyes are wide and a little teary and Koutarou doesn’t know if this is a dream or real.

“I love you,” he breathes out, hands tightening around Keiji’s wrists and the other winces. “Ah, sorry.”

Koutarou thinks and thinks fuck it. He interlocks their fingers and smiles at the way Keiji takes a deep breath. “Keiji,” Koutarou whispers, like he did earlier and Keiji looks at him. “I love you.”

“As a friend?”

Koutarou lets out a sudden laugh and shakes his head, leaning closer and closer. His chest bumps against Keiji’s knees and he lets out a laugh at the way Keiji’s cheeks heat up. “No,” he leans closer, smiling at the way Keiji’s nose bumps against his and he brushes his lips against his. “As a lover. I love you, Keiji.”

“Oh,” Keiji breathes out and his eyes are wide and beautiful underneath his glasses and Koutarou wonders if he should take them off. “Oh my.”

Koutarou grins. “Oh my?”

“This isn’t something I expected,” Keiji whispers, leaning closer and Koutarou feels his insides explode. “I like you.”

“I love you,” Koutarou says, kisses the corner of Keiji’s mouth. “Yeah?”

Keiji shivers and his legs fall open and Koutarou moves closer in between them. He and Keiji stare at each other for a moment and Keiji wraps his legs around Koutarou’s waist. “Yeah,” Keiji whispers back, eyes meeting Koutarou’s, and there’s the familiar high blush on his cheeks and Koutarou feels drunk and in love. “I love you, too.”

Koutarou grins and kisses Keiji’s nose. “I love you,” he presses a kiss to Keiji’s cheek and smiles against his skin when he feels Keiji shiver. “Kei-ji.”

Keiji squeezes their hands together and Koutarou moves even closer, smiling at the way his legs tighten their grip around his waist, too.

“Koutarou,” Keiji whispers back and tilts his head up towards him. Koutarou pulls his hand away from Keiji’s and rests it on Keiji’s knee and grins at the way Keiji closes his eyes. “Koutarou.”

“Hm?” Koutarou hums and brushes their noses together. “Keiji, Keiji, Keiji. I love you.”

Keiji lets out a soft laugh then and pulls his hands away to wrap them around Koutarou’s neck. “Kou-ta-rou,” he whispers and brushes his lips against his. “Kiss me, please?”

Koutarou does. He presses his lips against Keiji’s, soft and gentle, innocent and sweet. Keiji’s hands pull and tug on the hair by Koutarou’s nape and Koutarou smiles against the kiss. There’s a moment of sweetness; a silent moment of gentleness before Koutarou’s tongue meets Keiji’s bottom lip and Keiji opens his mouth sweetly, breathlessly and lets out a soft sound that makes Koutarou’s mind go hazy. Koutarou kisses him the way he should’ve all these years; he kisses Keiji with all the love he’s been wanting to give him; he kisses Keiji and makes him remember Koutarou’s tongue against his; he kisses Keiji and makes him remember what Koutarou’s mouth feels against his, the warmth of his tongue and the warmth of his kiss.

Keiji kisses him back just as fiercely, just as much love Koutarou does.

“Koutarou,” Keiji whispers against his lips and there’s a small shuffle, how Keiji leans back a little and Koutarou’s hands find the small space of Keiji’s back and helps him in laying down on the soft couch. “Koutarou, feels good.”

“Hm,” Koutarou hums against his mouth and pulls back a little, a little dizzy, a little in love, a little hazed. Here is Akaashi Keiji, laying down beneath him on Keiji’s tiny couch inside his tiny apartment, glasses blurry with the heat between them, blush high on his cheeks, arms wrapped around Koutarou’s neck, legs wrapped around Koutarou’s waist and wearing Koutarou’s MSBY jacket. “You’re beautiful.”

Keiji pulls him down for a kiss. Koutarou laughs amidst the kiss and Keiji pouts. Koutarou kisses it away. Koutarou finds peace and happiness in the part where Keiji’s neck meets his collarbones and he spends his time pressing kisses there, breath hot and warm. He marvels in the way Keiji unconsciously arches his back towards him, gasps and sighs leaving his mouth.

“Koutarou—” he gasps out, grabbing his face and pulling him back to his lips. “Hm, it’s too late.”

“No, no,” Koutarou whispers against his lips, hands finding solace on Keiji’s back, on his waist, on the soft spot behind his thighs, “not too late. I love you.”

“No,” Keiji snorts and pulls away from him to let out a small laugh. “Too late. You’ll be late for practice tomorrow.”

“Hm,” Koutarou hums and presses a kiss on his cupid’s bow. Keiji’s legs around his waist tighten and he lets out a soft sigh at the way Koutarou peppers kisses around his face. “Don’t care.”

Keiji laughs then and buries his face on Koutarou’s neck. Then, he pulls back, glasses foggy and dirty and slipping down his face, and Koutarou grins. Keiji cups Koutarou’s face and brings him down a little and presses a kiss on his nose. “I love you,” he whispers then, eyes bright and smile wide. “I love you, Bokuto Koutarou.”

Koutarou grins and wraps his arms around Keiji’s tightly, weighing him down on the couch and laughs at the _oof_ Keiji lets out. “I love you, Akaashi Keiji,” he whispers against his ear, pressing kisses on the spot. “I love you.”

The apartment is softly and slowly filled with giggles and laughs and _i love you_ ’s and then _ah, Koutarou, you’re so heavy_ and _Keiji! don’t say that to me! i’m sensitive!_ and _ah, i’m sorry, Koutarou-san_ and then there’s giggles and more laughter of MSBY groupies and more kisses and Koutarou finds that Keiji loves being kissed messily and with too many laughs between them. Keiji finds out that Koutarou loves being kissed quietly and smoothly, soft and slow, like time is just right by their side.

We sit back and exhale. We think of this story and how it started and ended.

Ah. Maybe Keiji was right. Maybe they are the protagonists of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna make it that they confess at mcdonalds but thats just too much . so i hope the ending is okay and u have survived their unbearable pining .... also ive realized halfway that this is like backroom fic also go easy on the writing style ok i was experimenting okay thats all i love you thank you for reading <3 
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/bokkuns) n [my cc](https://curiouscat.me/atsuaka) !! <3
> 
> \- [someone drew tiny bokuaka from this fic](https://twitter.com/elisetheweeb/status/1264937373101510656) !! <3 ahhh please support the artist look at akaashi's smile T_____T


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